


Afterthought

by hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove



Series: Better Camelate Than Never [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (and then have another shot if your mind immediately went to My Shot just then), Angst, Battle of Camlann (Merlin), Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Day 4: Cupid's Aro, Episode: s05e05 The Disir, Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hamilton Lyrics, Hamilton References, Hurt No Comfort, War, but the divergence is pretty much inconsequential, copious amounts of it, if you squint through smudgy sunglasses maybe, take a shot every time you see one, this is a fun one truly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29361711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove/pseuds/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove
Summary: Since Mordred had fled, Arthur's nights had been plagued by bitterly hopeful dreams of his return.He'd never once considered that they'd meet again like this.A study of Arthur's thoughts surrounding the Battle of Camlann, his relationship with Mordred and the greys between the black-and-white philosophy he'd held for so many years, interwoven with lyrics from Lin-Manuel Miranda'sHamilton.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Mordred & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Better Camelate Than Never [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209551
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Camelove 2021





	Afterthought

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simoneleona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simoneleona/gifts).



> So. Fair warning. It's wordy. And it involves graphic depictions of war. 
> 
> I've tried to smooth out any errors, and I don't suppose I'll ever be satisfied (take another shot), but here it is. Still, please tell me... what'd I miss? (...have another shot). Also, if my sentences border on senseless, please do let me know. 
> 
> Please leave kudos and a comment if you like it! That would be enough (time to take - you guessed it - _a shot_ ) to make my day - nay, my year.

_ In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet  
For just a moment  
A yellow sky _

_ \- Hurricane,  _ Hamilton

* * *

_ One _ . A body falls at his feet. Blood splashes over his boots, soaking into the scuffed patches in the leather. He pays it no mind, lunging over the corpse and thrusting forwards to give it a companion to warm its deathbed. 

_ Two.  _

The air around him is hot. His face is greased with sweat, and the roaring stampede of soldiers slam against him like firewood being thrown to a pyre. Each touch burns through his chainmail, every splatter of fresh blood boils against his skin and it only grows hotter as he reaches the heart of the battle. Still, he forces his way through the inferno. 

He swings his sword forward, gritting his teeth as he slides it back out. Extinguished, the body crumples.

_ Three.  _

There’s an agonised scream as it hits the ground and he spins to intercept the man who charges toward him. Through the thick, matted fringe, eyes flash with something he recognises as pain - it distantly registers that his current opponent must have known his last kill, as he hasn’t yet landed a physical blow. 

He remedies that quickly with a smooth slice to the man’s neck.  _ Four. _

Another Saxon throws himself forward with a howl and he meets him with a swift uppercut -  _ five _ \- spins to slam the hilt of his sword to the startled face of another -  _ six _ \- arches his blade around, the tip splaying the torsos of two that’d come running at him from behind, twin howls of agony screaming up through the swirling dust. 

_ Seven. Eight.  _

He turns away. No one immediately approaches, and he takes the brief reprieve as a chance to catch his breath. As he steps forward, his foot lands on something soft, and has to spread out his arms to prevent himself tripping over. He looks down to see what’d disrupted his balance, and finds himself staring. 

A hand; small and dirty. Still. An arm, encased in patchy, leather armour that does nothing to hide how awkwardly thin and gangly it is. 

His every battle instinct screeches at him to move, to  _ run _ . 

But his eyes are inexplicably drawn to the roundness of the cheeks beneath the helmet that’s been knocked askew. The flush is fading from them; he can just about make out the smattering of hairs along the plush jaw. As though the boy had been trying to grow a beard, but couldn’t quite manage it yet. 

And now, never would. 

The thought is a dull shock. Not a revelation of something new, but something that was already known, smothered behind duty and anger. He doesn’t know why it chooses to bother him now.

But as he stares at the boy buried in armour with a strange, mounting unease, he finds his mind dragged to thoughts of the boy’s parents, and he wonders to himself if they’d been the ones to send their child into battle. He wonders - as the brash clang of weaponry and the clattering thud of another body hitting the ground rips through his ears - if they’d known. 

Logically, they must have; must’ve known their child could be killed, just as he’d known he could be the killer. 

In the heat of battle, death is a fact. As black and white as ash and soot, the line between friend and foe is drawn thickly in the dust. Time is too fleeting to consider the light that flames bring in tandem with the threat. It’s best to snuff it out, better to run in darkness than to risk getting burnt. 

Even as he reminds himself of these truths, the softness of a boy’s jawline gives him damning pause. 

Blood still pulses beneath his skin, breaths hot and heaving, beastial, and he can feel it more acutely now that his feet have stilled. Feet, at which a human being lays. 

His gaze never strays from the cooling cheek of the dead boy, as though standing vigil in numb mourning of this chip of humanity - whether the boy’s or his own, he doesn’t know. 

He does, however, know that it’s too little thought, far too late. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the glint of a blade. Almost grateful for the distraction from the unwelcome bout of conscience, he whips around to greet the cut with a fervent parry. 

His eyes lock onto ice, and the heat is sucked from his limbs. 

* * *

His back slams into the ground, and he gasps at the pain that shoots up his spine. 

He bursts with laughter a second later. His side is smarting, and the sun rays are burning his eyes, but the heart of it is eclipsed by a head of dark curls, shading him from the worst. Eyes of blue cool his own, and a sharp smirk of triumph cuts through the dizzying heat.

“You fought well, my Lord. I may have to start trying, soon.” 

Arthur gapes up at the youngest of his cohort and is helpless to stop the second barrage of laughter as he recognises his own words, thrown back in his face with an insolent wink. 

“I should have you sent to the stocks for your cheek,” he manages to wheeze out in the wake of his mirthful fit. Mordred tilts his head to the side, eyes boyishly playful.

“And usurp Merlin’s position?” he quips, tone joking but familiarly soft. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“He hasn’t been found there for a long time,” Arthur says, eyes flicking to the side. Merlin is stood by the weapon stand, watching him like a shadow, shoulders stiff and arms crossed tightly across his abdomen. Arthur looks away again. “You should take it,” he jokes, “I insist. It’s a shame for it to remain empty.”

Arthur sees Mordred’s eyes dart briefly in Merlin’s direction. The teasing smile falters, and he begins pushing himself up from where he’s sat on Arthur’s chest. 

Arthur smiles widely and punches Mordred’s shoulder as the boy clambers off him. He grasps the arm that Mordred offers, allowing his youngest knight to help him to his feet.

“I do admit,” he says, grunting as his side twinges at the movement, “that you’ve done well. Especially in these last few weeks, you’ve made leaps and strides in your training.”

He sees Mordred flush and duck his head under the praise and grins. 

“I’m humbled by your high regard, my Lord. I was worried, because I-” Mordred chews at the inside of his cheek. “I know Sir Leon sometimes disapproves of the fact that I stray from his specified regimen.” 

“Keep Sir Strait-Laced out of your mind, for a moment,” Arthur replies with a smirk, “You show innovation when you put your own spin on our technique.” 

Mordred can’t fight off his pleased smile this time. It makes Arthur feel unbearably fond, and he resolves to keep it there with whatever power he has.

“You’re quick,” he continues enthusiastically, “and that’s a strength. In battle, making split-second decisions is vital. You do, however, need control.” 

Mordred looks up at him, brow scrunched in confusion. 

“My Lord?” 

Arthur clasps Mordred’s shoulder firmly. 

“You’re quick, yes, but  _ wild _ . When you swing, it’s sometimes as though you’re warding off anyone who comes within a meter radius of your person. Perhaps on a battlefield, where you can clearly see who wears your colours and who doesn’t, it’s useful. But more commonly, when you’re ready to be taken out on real missions, you’ll need to reign it in. A good knight has the ability to wait.”

At this, Mordred’s eyes widen. 

“But what if they attack you?” he blurts. “What if - the moment you hesitate - they manage to get a blow in?”

“What if they don’t?” He shrugs. “Something I’ve learnt over the years is that often, in the real world, people are scared. They’re hurt. They’ve been wronged. To head straight forth into combat without hearing them out is unjust.” 

He squeezes Mordred’s shoulder, looking deeply into his eyes to gauge his pupil’s understanding. Mordred stares back up at him, attentive and serious. 

“Wait,” Arthur continues. “ _ Watch _ .  _ Observe _ your opponent, try to see if their weapon is raised because they actually want to hurt you, or if they simply don’t want to be hurt themselves. More often than not, it’s the latter. If that does turn out to be the case, always do your best to diffuse the conflict, rather than causing more pain.”

Mordred nods slowly. 

“Even if they struck [first](https://youtu.be/yxG37MyQfoc?t=119)?” 

“Even then.” 

Arthur slides his hand from Mordred’s shoulder and rests his arm around the boy’s neck. As he begins leading him off the training grounds, he doesn’t miss the way Mordred leans into his side. It aches him to recognise his own craving for touch in the young man; he’d spent too many of his own years revelling in every brush Uther deigned to leave on the back of his neck. He pulls Mordred tighter to himself. 

“It’s about awareness,” he goes on as their steps fall into synchrony, wandering up the cobbled road to the castle. “Making yourself aware of the nuances beyond what you see immediately in front of you... Which brings me to my next lesson.” 

He looks down at Mordred at the same time that the boy looks up at him, and grins. 

“Remember, Mordred; always watch your back.” 

* * *

The world fades away like it’s wont to do when he falls asleep. 

And he does - for a second - believe he’s dreaming, because the scene that’s left is one that he’s seen before; when he’s lain in bed, feverish with regret, and a small figure - calm smile and cool eyes - walks back through the mist to embrace him. 

He knows he’s not barely a second later - or if he is, he’s plummeting through a nightmarish distortion. The boy, as in the dream, appears through the mist - though in a mockery of the ethereal blue, the suffocating haze of dust raised by the thundering feet of the armies sets in the air between them instead. The eyes, rather than the bracing crispness of a morning breeze that he yearns for, are more akin to the thick ice that shutters a lake in the pit of winter.

There’s no breaching them, he knows. The shock - the  _ grief _ \- numbs him like frostbite. 

The grip on his sword slackens infinitesimally, but it’s enough, and suddenly he’s unarmed and there’s a sword stuck in his gut. 

He feels his eyes blow wide, and he chokes, but his eyes never leave Mordred’s, even as his vision begins to blur. 

Confusion sets in, and he thinks that perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps he  _ was _ dreaming, because he must be imagining the way Mordred’s own eyes gape, as though the frost has begun to melt and horror wells through, but then the blade is pulled from his flesh, replaced by shaking hands as Mordred tries desperately to staunch the flow. 

“Oh- oh,  _ God _ -” 

Arthur claps a hand to Mordred’s shoulder, swaying slightly and he grunts in pain. He holds the boy’s eyes. 

“Mordred,” he says, and his voice is tight around the ache. He winces. 

Mordred looks up at him - round cheeks, cherubic curls and eyes so large and frightened that Arthur wants nothing more than to pull him into the crook of his arm and keep him safe. He draws in a breath. “Mordred,” he says again, “it’s okay, just-”

He pushes Mordred’s hands away from the wound, and Mordred gasps shudderingly as he stares at the blood on them. 

Arthur can’t see it, himself - the black of Mordred’s gloves are too dark, and  _ God _ , he looks so  _ pale _ , shrouded in that heavy, mournful cloak. It makes the bruises beneath the boy’s eyes stand out in a way that twists in Arthur’s gut even more than the sword that’d been sheathed there mere seconds before. 

He looks into Mordred’s face and wonders if Uther had seen the same expression before Arthur had blown the horn to cast him back into the Spirit Realm. 

Arthur forces himself to stand straight, clenching his teeth as subtly as possible to reassure the frightened boy that everything will be okay. 

A part of him is excited. He feels  _ hope _ , because Mordred is there, real and whole, barely an arms-width away. He wants to laugh, because he’s  _ awake _ \- the agony in his gut will attest to that - which means his dreams have come true. 

Mordred is still shaking, eyes scrunched up as if to hold back tears, ripping his gloves from his fingers as though he can rid himself of his deed. Arthur can read the question of _ “what have I done” _ in his eyes, but the elation of being privy to Mordred’s emotions again is pushing him to the verge of hysteria and for once, in the face of betrayal, he doesn’t care. 

He takes a stumbling step forward. Mordred mirrors him, guilt-ridden chastisements clearly at the tip of his tongue, worried hands reaching out-

And he chokes. His eyes widen. His knees buckle. 

Arthur’s eyes dart to a figure just above Mordred’s shoulder as they give him a nod. 

“My Lord,” the man clips, drawing his sword from Mordred’s back, swift and businesslike, before turning to dash back into the throng, scarlet cloak blazing behind him. 

He’s sure to get whiplash from the number of times he’s reassessed the state of his consciousness, because this must be a nightmare.  _ It must be _ , but as even as he tells himself so, he knows it’s a lie.

Mordred lifts his hand away from his stomach. There’s no black this time to shelter him from the redness on that snow-pale skin. 

There’s no denying the clatter of chainmail against chainmail as Mordred collapses forward into his arms, the feeling of soft hair against his chin, the sound of short, bursting breaths echoing louder than a storm even in the midst of the warfield. 

He wishes he were in a nightmare. Then, at least, he’d be able to wake up. 

* * *

The absolute fear that grips Arthur’s throat when Mordred takes the blow meant for him is one that will haunt his slumber for the rest of his life. 

It happens fast. Gwaine is thrown backwards. Arthur sees red. His rage  _ burns _ and he draws his sword, calling his men to arms. The spear flies. Mordred leaps between him and blinding gold eyes, and his small, dark figure is suddenly all that Arthur can see. 

He hears the call for Merlin rip itself from his throat - the name he calls instinctively over all others when he’s scared, when in need, when he’s hurt; such as now, with the boy who has become a part of himself bleeding out on the cave floor. 

He pulls Mordred away from the Disir. He’s frantic, heart racing, overwhelmed with nausea, fixated on the whimpers bursting from Mordred’s lips and the need to get him away from the beasts who hurt him. Out loud, he’s screaming at his men, spitting blame and urging them to hurry. In his head spirals the question _ “what have I done what have I done what have I done” _ over and over and over again.

It’s all he can think for being so damn stupid bringing Mordred with him, but he had looked so hurt at being left behind, and Arthur had helplessly caved to the boy’s pleas. When he had - when Mordred had  _ smiled _ ... he’d [fallen apart](https://youtu.be/PGx7Fx3KyYk?t=106). He’d convinced himself he’d done the right thing. He’d told himself he could protect him. 

He’d thought he was so smart. 

The forest floor is uncomfortable as he kneels, twigs and pebbles bruising into his thighs, so he arranges Mordred’s head in his lap to cushion him from the same discomfort. 

Merlin approaches, silent as a silhouette. Normally, it would strike Arthur as strange to see his bumbling, clumsy servant so sure in his steps. If everything were normal, he’d make a quip - humoured to veil his true concern - about Merlin’s solemn expression.

But Arthur barely sees it. At that moment, he doesn’t care. 

He touches his fingers to Mordred’s pulse point. He counts the beats. 

_ One. Two. Three. _

Merlin crouches beside them and presses his hands to Mordred’s chest. Arthur looks up at him.

“How is he?” He sounds breathless to his own ears. 

_ Four. Five.  _

Merlin’s eyes had been empty before, but his aloofness falters at the desperation in Arthur’s voice. 

“It’s not a simple wound, Sire. Sorcery was involved.” 

Sorcery. He wants to laugh. Would the threat of magic ever stop terrorising the ones he loved? 

_ Six. Seven.  _

“Is there anything you can do?” 

He sees the sorrow in Merlin’s face, and it’s answer enough. Part of him wants to scream at Merlin, but he knows it would be unfair. 

The fault is his own. Merlin had been the one to tell him to respect the sanctity of the cave, hadn’t he? And what had Arthur done? Scoffed and dismissed his concern. Flashed his weapons, demanded answers, posed himself as a threat and an arrogant braggart - enough that the Disir had struck back. 

_ He’d flown too close to the [Sun](https://youtu.be/ibiXMtfG6a8?t=103), and the one he’d sworn to protect had fallen.  _

Mordred’s breaths are coming shorter and shallower. Merlin is hovering at his left, hands useless and limp at his sides. Percival is squatted at his right, brow furrowed in concern. Arthur would find the steadfast presence reassuring, usually, but all he feels now is stifled. The air is too hot. He’s restless.

_ Eight.  _

He counts the beats of Mordred’s pulse and wishes he could open his eyes. 

* * *

Arthur lowers them both to the floor as Mordred’s legs go out beneath him. He knows that he himself wouldn't be able to stay standing from the vertiginous wave of panic that he’s consumed by. 

He pulls Mordred into his lap so that his curl-crowned head lies against Arthur’s stomach. He puts a shaking hand to the boy’s neck, then in a fit of frustration pulls his gloves off with his teeth, ignoring the taste of blood that hits the tip of his tongue. Frantic, he presses his numb fingers to Mordred’s pulse, the other hand cupped just in front of the boy’s mouth. 

_ Is he [breathing](https://youtu.be/X4JukezAKUk?t=61)?  _

The tiny, answering burst of breath on his palm pulls a relieved sob from Arthur’s chest. 

As light as the wings of a butterfly, Mordred’s eyes flutter open, bright blue made brighter by a sheen of tears. Mordred tries to rasp something out, but barely moves his lips before his features knot in agony. 

Arthur puts a tender hand to Mordred’s forehead.

“Save your [strength](https://youtu.be/X4JukezAKUk?t=56),” he says softly.  _ Stay alive, _ he doesn’t. 

Mordred slowly lifts a hand and splays it against the side of Arthur’s face. Arthur grips the hand with his own, larger -  _ so much larger _ \- one. 

Again, Mordred opens his mouth to speak. Arthur bites back a protest; he wants to tell Mordred not to strain himself, but he selfishly wants to hear his voice at the same time. 

“My Lord,” Mordred croaks out. Arthur smiles shakingly down at him. 

_ My boy _ . 

“My Lord, I- _ Arthur _ , I’m so-” He gasps, pained.

Arthur shushes him gently, stoking his thumb against the sweaty skin of Mordred’s temple. 

“ _ Shh _ . I know. [I know](https://youtu.be/X4JukezAKUk?t=53).” 

“I’m so sorry. I’m- 

“I know. It’s okay.” 

Within the cold palm against his ear, Arthur can almost hear the rolling of the ocean, as though it were a delicate conch. He thinks of Gedref, and thinks of arrogance. His hamartia. 

He moves his other hand from Mordred’s head back to his pulse, counting the beats. 

“I’m sorry that I [forgot](https://youtu.be/X4JukezAKUk?t=69),” Mordred says, voice frail. Arthur looks at him with a twist of worry. He wonders if deliria is setting in, and how close Mordred is to- 

_ No. _

“I forgot what you taught me,” Mordred continues, still as weak, “about awareness.” 

Arthur, not for the first time, wants to laugh. He does, and it sounds like a sob. 

“You were angry,” Arthur says soothingly. “If anyone owes an apology, it’s me. You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to take back what I did to you.”

Mordred’s eyes show a flash of grief, but he meets Arthur’s, and there’s acceptance there. To Arthur, he feels that he’s been offered a sip from a cool spring after crawling on hands and knees through the Perilous Lands. Something in them is set right, even though everything else is desperately wrong. 

“I thought I needed to avenge her,” Mordred says brokenly. “I thought you needed to be brought to justice, but I didn’t- you didn’t fight back, you _didn’t fight me_ and- and I-” 

Brimming with remorse, Mordred places a hand on Arthur’s abdomen. It’s with a dull start that Arthur is reminded of the wound there. Wordlessly, he moves their joined hands by his face down to his neck and holds Mordred’s fingers against his pulse, then takes the small hand against his abdomen to bring it back to Mordred’s neck too. A cycle of arms. He offers the boy a reassuring smile.

“See? Still alive.” Mordred’s glassy eyes are searching his face. He gives the boys’ hands a squeeze. “You were entitled to justice for how I wronged you. I accept my sentence.” 

“But-”

“ _ Shh _ . Don’t worry. You did everything just right.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”  _ Just stay alive. That would be [enough](https://youtu.be/kK9c41WgNpc?t=70). _

There’s fear written deeply into the wrinkles between Mordred’s brows and in the pinch of his mouth. Arthur hates it. He’s been here before: holding the hands of his comrades; seeing their naked fright stare back up at him; comforting them with lies of recovery, even as they edge toward the precipice of-

He should be used to it. 

Mordred’s breaths come raggedly. Arthur readjusts his fingers so that he can feel Mordred’s pulse beat beneath them better. He counts. 

_ One. _

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling a smile, “remember when you first started training?” 

Mordred’s eyes determinedly cling to his as he struggles to stay conscious. He gives a barely perceptible nod. 

“You had to… spoon feed me,” he breathes back, “everything. My... grip… my stance…”

Arthur laughs indulgently. 

“I did.”

“You would… put your hand on [mine](https://youtu.be/X4JukezAKUk?t=78)… and…”

He cuts himself off with a groan of pain. 

_ Two.  _

“And I would take you through the moves,” Arthur finishes for him, “over and over again.”

Mordred shudders in Arthurs embrace. His hands are cold. 

“You were terrible,” Arthur teases, masking the shaking of his voice as best he can. “You had so much promise, but you were down on your arse _every_ two seconds.” 

Mordred chokes on something like a laugh, and his lips upturn into a wobbly smile. 

“You were bloody determined, though,” Arthur continues, quiet. “That first session, the other knights were actually concerned about your refusal to take a break.”

“I… I wanted to… make you... proud.” 

He feels like he’s [falling](https://youtu.be/bMAoOGnw9qQ?t=89) apart. 

“You have,” he says. “ _ God _ , Mordred, you have. [Pride](https://youtu.be/PGx7Fx3KyYk?t=88) doesn’t even cover it.” He swallows. He has to keep it together, for Mordred. For his child, whose eyes are growing more distant with every passing second. 

_ Three. _

“No matter how many times you failed, you got up again.” 

_ Please, get up again. Stay alive.  _

Another groan of pain, trickling to a whimper. 

_ Four.  _

“I got you… down… eventually.” 

“You did,” he relents. Then he looks down at himself with a raised brow, cracking a smirk. Mordred looks between his face and Arthur’s wound, stunned. A shocked laugh bursts out, this time audible, if short. Arthur laughs too, because the situation is bleak, and they’re bleeding out in each other’s arms. But they  _ are in _ each other’s arms, and that’s all Arthur wants to focus on. 

Once again, he wishes he were dreaming. He’s tired. He wants Merlin. He wants Guinevere. He wants Mordred, safe and whole and  _ alive _ . 

As though the universe is spiting him, Mordred curls up suddenly with an agonised sob. Arthur hushes him gently, cradling him as he shudders, though he feels like curling up and crying too. 

_ Five _ . 

He smiles. 

“Remember the time all the knights set after the sorcerers who cursed the village on our border with Nemeth?” he asks. “The curse that gave everyone nightmares every time they fell asleep?” Mordred’s eyes glint with recognition.

“We all… tried... to… stay a… awake…”

“We did. And Sir Gwaine decided to sing to keep everyone alert.” He grins. “I distinctly remember your surprise duet performance, though.” 

It’s the tiniest thing, but Mordred’s expression turns bashful. Arthur knows he’d be flushed under normal circumstances. He tries to fool himself into believing these circumstances _ are _ normal, that they’re back in that village trying to stay awake to evade a silly little hex. Mordred’s eyelids droop. 

_ Six.  _

“Sir Leon… didn’t appre… he didn’t... enjoy it.” 

“I think he was more offended about how you two butchered the lyrics.” Mordred huffs, amused. 

“We im _… proved_ … them.”

“The pair of you are sadistic little shits,” Arthur counters, “You know how much that man cares about his literature. He spent so long trying to teach you those ditties, and like a couple of  _ hellspawn  _ you went and-”

Mordred laughs.

“And we… I would… always… change the... [lines](https://youtu.be/X4JukezAKUk?t=81)…” 

“You didn’t just change them,” Arthur snorts, “you  _ dirtied _ them.” 

“That... was... mostly Gw… Gwaine.” 

“I have zero doubt of that.” 

Any amusement is incinerated as Mordred’s eyelids surrender their battle to stay open. He drops the hand from his own neck - Mordred’s hand flopping to the floor after it - and taps the side of the boy’s face. 

“Hey. Hey, Mordred? Stay awake for me, okay?” 

Mordred only groans. 

“You have to stay awake.” 

No response. 

_ Seven. _

“Mordred? Just do this for me, alright? I just need you to keep your eyes open.” 

Miraculously, a slit of blue appears between the eyelids. Arthur clings to it like a lifeline. 

“That’s it,” he encourages, voice thin. “Just keep looking at me, okay? You’re going to be fine.” 

Mordred’s lips twinge into something like a smile. It’s so small, but the sight of it knocks the breath from Arthur’s lungs.

“Stay with me, Mordred.” 

Mordred’s eyelids flutter dangerously close to shutting again. 

“You’re going to be fine.” 

_ Eight. _

He’s lying to himself. He knows he is. Merlin should be there, if only to tell him that their only chance is taking Mordred to Gaius, to  _ tell _ him that there’s a chance, that there’s still  _ hope _ . 

For what feels like the first time in ten years, Merlin doesn’t appear. The battle that he’d been oblivious to as his world had narrowed to the boy in his arms still blazes around them like a wildfire. Their [quiet](https://youtu.be/7ZfzuJ8oVpE?t=12) in the eye of the storm seems louder than being in the fray had been. Every catch of Mordred’s breath reverberates around the canyon. Arthur can no longer see the blue of his eyes. He can, however, from this proximity, see the gloss of red on the black armour. It’s almost funny how through the cladding that aligns the boy with Morgana, Camelot’s colours bleed through. Funny, like he’s won a custody battle against his sister, and the child had gotten caught in the crossfire. He cups a hand before Mordred’s mouth.

He can’t hear Mordred’s breaths. 

_ Nine. _

He wants to scream. 

* * *

Merlin’s eyes are downcast across the campfire. His fingers are buried in the earth, knuckles white, knees drawn up to his chest. The smoke obscures him, but not enough to mask the conflict warring in his expression. For some reason, he seems close to tears. 

It’s probably guilt. Arthur isn’t blind to the hostility between his servant and his youngest knight, but Merlin’s too much of a bleeding heart not to feel  _ something _ over the suffering of another. 

It can’t be any sort of match for the guilt that Arthur feels himself, though. 

He’s waiting for an answer. He knows what he has to hear. Magic is outlawed, and making an exception for one person would be hypocritical. Arrogant. Selfish. He shouldn’t have disrespected the Disir, but accepting their terms would be putting the safety of the Kingdom at risk. 

A part of him still waits for Merlin to tell him that selfishness is okay. 

He takes a twig and tosses it into the campfire to give his restless hands something to do. Sparks leap from where it lands, falling at his feet. 

Blowing out a sigh, he shuffles in discomfort. The cool, crispness of the forest has been infected by the sweltering heat of the flames, and his heavy armour is making him sweat. His legs are numb from inaction. He can feel the phantom weight of a body lain against them. 

Merlin draws in a breath. Arthur immediately looks up, stomach in tight coils. He doesn’t breathe. 

When Merlin meets his eyes, Arthur finds no comfort in them. He suddenly knows what his servant is going to say, and he doesn’t want to hear it.    
Higher powers have never spared him mercy, though. 

“There can be no place for magic in Camelot.” 

The smoke from the campfire billows between them. Arthur feels like he’s choking. 

* * *

_ One. Two. Three.  _

Every breath is an effort. It’s enough to give him something else to focus on - something other than how the world has turned into Hell. 

The battle is long since over, the Saxons retreated some time ago. He remembers seeing lightning strike from the skies, splitting the air. The sorcerer - the one who’d killed his father, he recalls vaguely - standing on the cliff’s edge and turning the battle in Arthur’s favour. He remembers the roar of that voice, raspy from age, sweeping through the canyon and rattling in the bones of the dead. The sorcerer had disappeared soon after. Everything Arthur knew to be true was up in the air. He has no idea what to think. So he doesn’t. 

_ Four. Five. Six.  _

Every breath is an effort, and he revels in the distraction. 

He’d sat, Mordred still cradled in his arms, staring around himself at the destruction left behind by the battle for a long, long time. The dust had settled over the bodies, red and black merging together like a river of lava that ran the length of the canyon. There was no line drawn between the armies. They were all the same in death; flesh, blood and bones. 

Arthur had been numb as he’d crawled out from under Mordred. The boy was heavy, and Arthur was weak from blood loss, so it’d taken him several minutes, each that passed as sluggishly as years. He’d then slipped his arms under Mordred’s armpits and began the trial of dragging him to the edge of the canyon. Every pull aggravated his wound, each time he’d almost be blinded by the throb of pain. Still, he’d kept going. 

_ Seven. Eight. Nine. _

He’d kept pulling, shoving weapons, splayed arms and legs out of the way with his heel with each tiny backwards step. He’d been sweating hard, panting heavily. The smell of blood had made him nauseous. He’d taken another step, but his foot had landed on a hand and he’d tripped, collapsing with Mordred landing on top of him, rendering him unable to move. Mordred’s weight crushed his lungs, made it impossible to draw breath, impossible to muster the energy to get back up. He struggled, writhing frantically, but it was futile. Hope had abandoned him, and with his cheeks burning from the heat of his tears, Arthur had slammed his fist against the ground and screamed. 

He’d screamed, sobbing, anger and self loathing pulsing in his gut like a living creature that clawed up into his throat and made him want to be sick. He’d screamed until his voice was spent and all he could manage were pathetic gasps. 

Every breath was an effort, and Arthur was so, so tired. 

Time had passed.

Somehow, he’d been able to push himself into a half-sitting position. From there, with Mordred held tightly in shaking arms, he’d dragged them both backwards, clawing his way towards the cliffside with gritted teeth until his back had finally hit the rough face. With his head thrown back against the rock, he’d gulped air into his lungs and pulled Mordred closer between his bent legs, tucked close to his chest. He’d breathed. 

Curling himself around the boy in his arms, he’d pressed his nose to the sweaty curls. He’d closed his eyes. He’d ignored the way Mordred’s lips had turned blue. He’d ignored how Mordred’s skin felt like ice. He’d closed his fingers around Mordred’s wrist and ignored how there was no pulse beating beneath them. He ignored everything, and breathed for both of them. 

_ One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.  _

_ One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.  _

_ Seven. Eight. Nine.  _

_ Seven. Eight. Nine.  _

_ Seven. [Eight.](https://youtu.be/X4JukezAKUk?t=92)..  _

* * *

The molten gold of Merlin’s eyes is more full of light and warmth than even the fire that he’d coaxed to life with his bare hands. Nothing is simple anymore, but if the past two days in the forest have taught Arthur anything, it’s to embrace complexity. He honestly doesn’t know how he’d ever convinced himself Merlin was simple in the first place. 

In his mind, he can hear Merlin asking if Arthur hasn’t yet fathomend him out. He tells Mind-Merlin that if anything, being told his secret has left him even more baffled than he had been before. 

He huffs a laugh. 

Merlin looks up with concern tightening his brow. Arthur smiles back reassuringly. Merlin holds his gaze for another few seconds, before he turns back to his cooking. Arthur watches him curse and frantically scrape the bottom of the pot with his ladle as the scent of burn reaches his nostrils, and fondly shakes his head. At least there’s no confusion about Merlin’s clumsiness, he thinks, settling further into the pillowy patch of moss that Merlin had arranged him against. 

There’s one question that rises as he sits there, like sunken driftwood breaking through the surface of an otherwise still lake. He follows with his eyes the way Merlin pokes at the flames with a twig, and thinks back to another campfire, another night, another life on the line. Of all the conundrums Merlin poses, his refusal to bring back magic is the one that disturbs Arthur the most. If he’d told Arthur to allow magic to return, Arthur would’ve jumped at the chance… if only to save Mordred. And therein lies the issue. 

Trawling back through Mordred’s knighthood, Arthur can’t recall a single instance of Merlin showing any sign of liking the boy, despite there being no obvious reason for him not to. But he’d seen the same hostility aimed at Agravaine, and at Morgana in the months immediately after her year-long disappearance, and they’d shown their true colours eventually, proving Merlin’s instincts correct. He ponders on how much Merlin had been aware of behind the scenes.

And yet, it still makes no sense. He knows when Mordred’s loyalty had wavered, and Merlin had treated him with coldness long before then, as if he’d been anticipating the moment when he’d trip up. As if it were inevitable. 

He thinks of a word his servant utters like it’s the name of a deity - one that Arthur himself had never believed in, though now wonders if he should have. He watches Merlin, illuminated by the fire, and nearly asks him: 

_ Did you [know](https://youtu.be/X4JukezAKUk?t=66)? _

He doesn’t, though. He lets the question float away, lets the ripples fade until his mind is still again, and decides that it doesn’t matter. 

He’s reached a strange sort of peace. The heated fury of war has bled from his bones, leaving him weak, but calm. He knows he’s running out of time, as much as Merlin wants to deny it. When it comes, he’ll welcome it with open eyes. 

He mourns the loss of his kingdom, yes: the regret of never getting to see the fruits grown from the seeds he’d planted; the guilt of leaving a [song](https://youtu.be/BQ1ZwqaXJaQ?t=133) unfinished for someone else to have to sing. 

It comforts him to know that Guinevere’s voice will be the one to continue it. The best of [women](https://youtu.be/hfmvDjPa2TU?t=41); his beautiful Queen. He recalls the cadence of her laugh with a pang of grief.

A yelp pulls him from his musing, and his eyes are drawn to where Merlin is sucking on the side of his hand, glaring at the hissing cooking pot with fervour. 

Arthur snorts, and feels light. 

* * *

There’s panic in Merlin’s eyes, in the tightness of his shoulders, and Arthur wants nothing more than to smooth it away. He reaches a hand up and cradles the back of Merlin’s head. Merlin sobs, and Arthur aches for him. His ridiculous servant. His dear friend. 

The end is near, and there are a thousand and a half things he wants to still say. He tries to speak, to sooth, but making his lips bend to his will is a struggle. He gives up; supposes to himself that he’ll see Merlin again one day on the other side of the Veil, where he can talk those stupidly large ears off for the rest of eternity.    
The thought is reassuring, and he finds himself almost excited. He thinks of his fellow soldiers, his brothers-in-arms, [waiting](https://youtu.be/BQ1ZwqaXJaQ?t=156) eagerly for him there. He thinks of Mordred, the mirth bright in his face, standing with Arthur’s mother, both their arms open to welcome him home. 

Merlin tells him not to say goodbye, so he doesn’t. He smiles instead, and hopes Merlin can read the pages and pages of everything he hasn’t the strength to say in the lines between his last, grateful words. 

He thinks, as he looks up at the pale sky of dawn, of Guinevere. He pictures her with a hint of guilt, and tells himself that he’ll wait for her; that it’s only a matter of [time](https://youtu.be/_gnypiKNaJE?t=174) before they see each other again and he can apologise for leaving her behind. He sends her a prayer as his consciousness fades, and hopes that she hears it. 

_ My love, take your time.  _

_ I’ll see you on the other [side.](https://youtu.be/BQ1ZwqaXJaQ?t=176) _

**Author's Note:**

> My Dearest, Cinnamone... what to say to you? I wrote this like writing was going out of style, and now words seem to fail me, though I hope you know how much I care about you anyway. 
> 
> Simply, I'm lucky to have you. 
> 
> I know you like Hamilton, so I just had to do something related for you. I hope you like it. 
> 
> Much love ;)


End file.
